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The old man sighed heavily and shadowy images lit up around him. Toby realised that they were no longer alone in the room. There was a presence – maybe even more than one – but it didn’t feel supernatural. It wasn’t a ghost. Toby felt like he was a ghost. In a spectral form, he hovered, gazing around him as the illusion of a hazy dream-world opened up in all directions.
‘Before I was a ringmaster, I was a bishop in the Scandinavian wilderness,’ Nicko began. ‘That was more than sixteen hundred years ago. Back then, I was just called Nicholas. I lived a quiet, religious life. I enjoyed the solitude and made toys for the local children as a hobby. That was when my journey began.’
He flicked his wrists and the images around them shifted. Toby wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but
